Warm, Never Love
by amusingaway
Summary: A ranger returns home and a steward's quiet vigil comes to an end. Two nameless characters, trying to stay warm in a cold world. Here's a peek into their lives. M/M.


Disclaimer: Don't own the books or show, just imagined these two bad boys and plopped them in the middle.

Warning: Rated M due to paranoia and me trying to stick to the new FFnet guidelines (let's see how long that lasts).

Pre-A/N: Um. Well. I'm sure someone like them probably existed sometime on the Watch. Probably weren't as sappy though.

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><p><strong>Warm, Never Love<strong>

He always waits with bated breath as he nears the wall, waiting for the horns to blow and announce his arrival. He knows they will only blow once, to signal a returning ranger... and yet sometimes he cannot help but imagine them blowing thrice, to signal those fearsome undead, and then him — looking around wildly at first and then staring at his own hands, his own flesh, to slowly realize that he's become...

The loud creaking noise of ancient wood jars him out of his thoughts and he shudders, feeling the cold once again. It's only the Whitewalkers that can make him forget it. Forget it here, on the other side of the wall, where there is cold and only cold and nothing else.

The gates finally open their jaws wide and he trudges forward, feet feeling as heavy as boulders on the frozen ground. A brother runs forward as he comes through to Castle Black — a home of sorts — and embraces him. Three weeks, his brother tells him it's been. Strange, he'd felt it had been much longer.

This wasn't his first patrol gone awry and it wasn't the first after which he had returned alone. It wasn't the first time he'd been thought dead either. The brothers he had left with were, but he had survived. At times he was forced to wonder for what.

He had been sixteen when he had been first shipped to Castle Black, and not for some petty reason either, and for nothing that was honorable. Killed a man, he had, and ruthlessly too. To this day he could remember his mother's face when he'd come home, half drunk on cheap ale and the other half on the rush, with bloodied hands and nails housing gore. And yet by this day, some twenty (or was it twenty and one?) years later... he could not even remember why he had killed in the first place.

They go through the basic amenities, visiting first the Kitchens to end his week-old fast and then onwards to the Lord Commander's chambers, to give news. Despite the fact that the news he bears is nothing pleasant — Mance Raydar is plotting, the Wildlings are rising — he is clapped on the back for a job well done and then sent to recover, to rest. Tomorrow's night's watch on the wall will be his.

He supposes it is a job well done—he has done what many aren't able to, what many won't be able to in the Winter that's surely to come. He's survived. And that, he thinks, is good enough to claim his reward. It is a reward now he thinks of it, and it would have been a consolation prize had he returned in worser health, or even medicine, had he returned even worse. Still, it is there, waiting for him, and smiling softly at the night that's falling now, he goes to it.

xxx

The clang of metal on metal is loud inside the armory, though outside the sound is deadened by the howling wind. Inside, it is soothing, the hiss of the metal as he pushes it into fire and then draws it out only to ram at it again.

It is hard work, it is calm work and it is work that soothes the strange cacophony of thoughts that started up inside him ever since he heard the horns. They — or someone at least — had returned. And after three weeks of suppressing thoughts as to whether the moment would ever come, he finds it strangely difficult to cope with now that it has.

He is supposed to wonder whether all the brothers had returned safe and sound. He is supposed to wonder about the reasons behind why they are nearly a fortnight late. He is not, however, supposed to wonder whether _he_ is among them, whether _he_ has made it back safe and sound, as if the others don't even matter.

_Clang!_ goes his hammer one last time on the sword, and straightening, he holds it steady and horizontal in front of his eyes, checking the balance. The blade is smooth and nearly ready.

They don't make too many weapons up here. Here, where fire is as precious as water and food. To use it for melting metal only to rebuild it again has always seemed wasteful and for the most part till now, Castle Black had gotten most of its weapons and other smithcraft from a little down south, playing guest to Ned Stark's hospitality and respect for them.

Now however, with the Lord of Winterfell having long been marked a traitor and beheaded, they have to make do with the small armory cosseted in the farthest corner of the holding, with barely enough supplies to arm the men and with only one resident blacksmith — himself.

He closes his eyes for a second, feeling the quiet around him, before twisting his arm so that the blade is now vertical, parallel to his length. He opens his eyes and begins spinning the sword, stepping gracefully around the small patch of area in the center of the half-open room not cluttered with tools and weapons.

He slices through the air, beheading imaginary enemies and hearing the glory of old echo in his ears. He sees a crowd, cheering, and there, on a podium, a faceless king, only the crown shining bright upon his brow, waiting to present him with the highest—

And then it all comes to an end. His left leg buckles in on him and he crashes to ground, the dull sword skittering away. As the pain blooms through his bad knee and makes shame prickle along the inside of his throat, he is aware of the quiet once again and of the cold, chilling his bare torso to his very bones.

"I will never understand why you insist on doing this to yourself."

The raspy voice is close behind him and even through the pain, he feels his lips twitch into a smile. A heavy cloak, smelling of days of sweat and musk is dropped on his shoulders as a pair of feet walk themselves into his line of sight.

He looks up onto the weathered face, smile widening. "You've come back."

"As if the horns hadn't told you that already," the other scoffs, eyes knowing. "It's just me though," he tacks on in the end. "The others... they didn't."

"I am sorry," the blacksmith—for that is all that he is now, as well as a steward—replies.

Neither of them offer a prayer for the dead. It was one of the first things that had brought them close, their lack of faith in any gods, the old or the new. They had both thought they were the only ones who saw the world for what it was, a timeless battle of survival and nothing else, before meeting the other. It had been the first time they had both felt a sort of kinship with someone else... which had then transformed into other... _things._

Reminded of these _things, _the smith stood, using the other man unashamedly to pull himself up. He took a neat step away when the other man leaned in though, shaking his head slightly.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, eyes roaming over the face now level with him.

The ranger scoffs again, but looks slightly abashed. They should be about the same age but the smith has always felt older, a little more wiser. Perhaps it's only because of the difference in status of their old lives, what with him having been highborn and the ranger only a lowly son of a farmer. Still, they're more than equals here now. Brothers... they should be...

"Stop it," the ranger growls, "I can see it in your eyes. You're thinking about it again."

"Thinking about what?" he asks, turning away under pretense of putting away his tools and retrieving his sword—_the _sword. He feels weariness creeping upon him and knows should have long turned in for the night. The reason why he hadn't? Well...

"About this," the other man hisses suddenly, reaching out a dry palm to curl around his sweaty wrist, "About us."

Angry, suddenly, at the pain that's still shooting through the back of his knee and at the rough touch that still feels so good, so warm, he yanks his wrist away and steps back, the cloak falling from his shoulders to the ground.

"There is no _us,_" he growls. "There's only the Night's—"

"Watch," the ranger completes with a small, tired chuckle, "And we are it's proud, proud men. Yeah, I know."

Snubbed into silence with his conscience whispering to him of the perils the man standing alive in front of him must have faced in the last few weeks alone, the smith feels himself relent, slightly. He bends down and retrieves the cloak, before walking to it's original owner and depositing it on his shoulders.

They're close enough once again, but the ranger's eyes now stare into the darkness, over the other's head. The smith shuffles closer and bends his head to rest on a shoulder that still feels hard under all the layers.

They stand like that for some moments, listening to the quiet. Then the returned ranger runs his calloused palms over his companion's arms, and whispers softly in his ear.

"The old rooms, 'round north of the castle. Turns out they gave mine to some newbie from down south. Better this way though... not many venture up there. I'll wait."

The smith feels himself nod against the warm shoulder and then with one last brush of warm fingers, the ranger pushes him away gently before brushing past him and leaving the armory.

Snow swirls in and down as the door opens and closes. Sighing, the smith runs a sooty hand over his face and looks to the ceiling, trying to rid the traitorous smile that's suddenly found it's way to his lips.

xxx

The bed is small, meant only to hold a single person. It scrapes against the ground and along the wall, and one of its occupants feverishly hopes that the walls of the castle are as thick as the rumours.

They're both indistinguishable now, a writhing mass of limbs and skin and lips, jerking, sliding moaning. Someone bites an ear and someone runs a clawed hand down a back. For once it seems as if they've pushed out the cold, drowning in each other's warmth.

A hand slides into dark hair, tugging up a head until searching lips find each other and the harsh pace turns down into something slower, but somehow deeper and more meaningful than before. He, and it can't matter who, pulls back to be able to see the other's face and as the two pairs of eyes meet, even in the relative dark, it takes only a final scrape along the wall before things come to a silent but satisfied end.

They roll away slightly from each other, hands and legs still tangled together on the too small bed. The warmth still lingers and someone pulls up a blanket to cover them both, trying to retain it as much as possible before the inevitable cold seeps in.

Silence, for some while. Then — "I didn't think you would come."

The other man laughs softly into the darkness. "The proof's lying between your legs. Good thing it can pass as your own too—else we would've had to burn the sheets."

"That's not what I meant."

The steward sighs. "You know I would rather be here, every night if I could. As would you if the bloody Lord Commander would allow that old sot of a man to move out of my—"

"Then, why is it you say no every fucking time then?" the ranger growls, hands tightening on the man's waist. "Do you know what it does to me?"

"To you?" the smith asks incredulously. "What it does to you? And what about me? Forced to wait here while you go beyond the wall and face who knows what? Did you ever think—"

The man cuts off abruptly, feeling something strange in the middle of his chest. He whips off the blanket and gets up, searching the dark for his clothes. A rough pair of hands pull him back suddenly against a bare chest and after a struggle he gives up, letting the stronger pair of arms encircle him and hold him close.

"You were worried."

It's not a question, but he answers anyway. "Yeah, I was."

"I'm a ranger," the man whispers against the stubbly jaw. "It's my job."

"Think I don't know that?" the steward asks, annoyed. "Doesn't get any easier though, does it?Knowing that, knowing everything."

He gets up now, pulling away from the arms that have grown slightly slack around him. He pulls on his skins, the roughness of them feeling harsh as hell after the gentleness of the touch before.

It's perhaps that irritation that causes him to drop yet again the shirt he picked up and turn back to his lover, anger and desperation burning in his eyes.

"The winter that's to come will probably kill us all, but despite knowing that, do we stop eating? Does the world stop fucking? No, it doesn't. But we don't stop worrying either. That's all I did, I worried and I still worry, knowing that it's useless. You don't have to like it, you don't have to care. Its beyond your help."

As he makes to turn away, an arm catches his shoulder and pushes him back against the nearest wall. The stones are ice to his bare back and he hisses, struggling against the arm gripping his shoulder and the other which is pinning his wrist to the same wall. His capturer responds only by stepping closer, crowding him.

"Let me go!"

"No," the ranger growls, biting along his jaw. "And you're wrong."

"About what?" snaps the steward, trying to ignore the deft tongue that has replaced the sharp teeth.

"That I don't care."

The steward jerks in surprise and his lover captures his mouth in a bruising kiss, trying to convey what he cannot say in so many words.

When the kiss ends, they are both left panting, and shivering. The ranger steps back, holding out a hand and after a moment's hesitation the other man takes it, allowing himself to be led back to the bed.

They sit, side by side and without touching. The air between them feels cold and suddenly the steward feels stupid for bringing it up. They could have stayed in bed for a few hours more, lost more hours doing forbidden things with their rampant bodies. They could have stayed warm.

"Will you leave now?" the ranger asks quietly, looking at cold floor.

"What?" the steward asks, confused.

"Leave now and not come back? Decide that all of this is too much... too much and the means to nothing with an end. 'Cause see that... that is what I fear."

The steward swallows but can't bring himself to say anything in response.

"I fear other things, of course," the ranger continues softly. "Out there, with your heart jumping at every twig that snaps and every howl the wind makes through those skeleton trees. Yeah, I know quite a bit about worrying... and fearing. After all, its what they say, isn't it? You haven't known true fear till you been on the other side of the Wall."

He chuckles tiredly, though nothing about anything is funny.

The steward inches his abandoned hand from earlier towards the other's and breathes a sigh of relief when its grasped.

"I won't leave," the steward says after a while. "I swear to you, I won't—but you... you will and—"

"And I'll come back," the ranger replies firmly, looking at him completely. "You have no choice but to trust me."

It's a lot to ask.

In return for the warmth, in return for the heat of a shared blanket and shared breaths... for assuring glances and mischievous ones, and for the unnoticed, fleeting press of a hand against a wrist while they stand among their brothers...

It is still too much to ask.

But there is no chance of the steward turning away when a hand comes up to tug his hair and pull his face in for a kiss, sliding down his neck and spine to pull him even closer and on top, until they're level with the ground.

Someone pulls up the abandoned blanket around them and the frenzy of impatient hands and lips begins anew, pushing the cold out and kindling the heat.

It still lingers... like fear. Of course, it does. But for now, the warmth is enough.

xxx

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><p>AN: So it's been a while and I'm being cautious. Nameless characters, new fandom etc., I'm just trying to get a feel of writing again. Obviously the above was quite cliched and maybe a little bit pointless, but if you've come across it, I hope you've enjoyed it.

R&R? (even a smiley face will probably act as a ginormous push to get me writing again)


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